


Dirty Blinds & Vodka Kisses

by leopardgecko



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Dolokhov is Gay (tm) and Sad, I DID NOT EDIT THIS IM SORRY IF ITS TRASHY, I LITERALLY WROTE IT IN SCHOOL AND FORGOT AB IT FOR LIKE A WEEK, I can only write angst i need to be happy 4 once, I got the title from Marigold from Mother Falcon please listen to it, M/M, alright ill be quiet, anyway lol, its a bop, slight injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardgecko/pseuds/leopardgecko
Summary: Dolokhov is confused and upset after Anatole kisses him one evening.(read tags, I didn't edit this. sorry if there's any mistakes)
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Dirty Blinds & Vodka Kisses

Dolokhov was not a man to reflect on his actions. If a thought came to his head, he’d pay no mind to it until later. Most nights, he drank vodka to forget and to stare at the stars above him. Sometimes while doing so, he would laugh, remembering his family or Anatole’s stupidity. 

Tonight was not one of those nights. It was snowing, a snowstorm possibly. The outside was covered in a thick layer of frost and cold. Dolokhov sat in his study, the candlelight dying slowly. A bottle of vodka almost tipping over lay next to him.

His mind wasn’t foggy as it usually was when he drank. It was irritatingly clear. 

An hour or so before this sad scene, Dolokhov was at Anatole’s. The two were enjoying themselves, arm draped over another. They were laughing at a joke Anatole said. Needless to say, they were acting like children. 

Dolokhov loved it. 

After the laughter subsided, the two sat in comfortable silence. The only sound in the stuffy room was the occasional gust of wind or the rustle of Anatole shifting.

Dolokhov took the few moments of nothing to think. Odd, he knows. He looked out the wide window next to him. The weather looked beastly outside. Snow whipped violently against trees and houses. How would he get back home without getting ill or lost? He thought, brows furrowing. 

“You have a look on your face.”

“Excuse me?” Dolokhov asked, snapping back into reality. 

“What are you thinking about? Your face shows distress.” 

Anatole was staring at him, eyes crinkled with amusement. Dolokhov’s face started to burn. Why was he embarrassed? “I was just wondering how I’d get home. Sorry for blanking on you, Tolya.”

Anatole let out a small chuckle at the slip-up. “It’s perfectly fine, mon cher. If you need, I can call a troika for you and we can get to your house. Generous, I know,” he said. Dolokhov nodded. Anatole left the room to go get a troika and Dolokhov followed like a lost child. 

A half an hour later, the troika arrived. Anatole and he jumped into it and they went on their way to Dolokhov’s house. During the ride, Anatole leaned against Dolokhov, obviously cold. “You didn’t have to come along, you know.” Anatole mutely nodded but shrugged. 

“I care for you, my dear Fedya.” Anatole smiled up at the man, curling more into his side. Dolokhov blushed at the gesture and turned his head away. 

The troika jerked to a sudden stop, almost flinging the men forward. Dolokhov let Anatole get out first. Before Dolokhov could turn away to go into his house, Anatole grabbed his shoulder tightly.

And kissed him. 

“Goodbye, Fedya. Please be careful tonight,” Anatole looked in Dolokhov’s wide eyes after pulling away. It was so horribly cheesy. He turned away and hopped back into the troika gracefully. With a gentle but quick wave, he was gone. Hoof and wheel marks in the muddy snow. 

That leads to now. 

Dolokhov brought a heavy, slightly trembling hand to his lips. He could still feel the sting and warmth of Anatole’s soft lips on his. It was like a ghost. He groaned, and reached for the half-empty bottle beside him. 

It was horrible. He was crushing on Anatole like a little girl and it was oh so humiliating. Anatole flirted like it was nature for him and Dolokhov couldn’t tell whether or not the kiss was meaningful or not.

He’d seen the prince kiss many, too many, pretty women in his life, but none of them were like what he had just done to Dolokhov. 

He took another swig of the burning drink, desperately trying to wash away the feel of Anatole on him. It only made the longing worse. Dolokhov felt sick.

Even if he did have feelings for the prince, it wouldn’t even matter. Anatole fell in love easy and he fell out of love just as easy. It was like rolling a dice and frankly, it scared Dolokhov to no end. 

If word got out of his romantic feelings, he’d surely be disgraced by all of Moscow. Kissing a married woman is one thing, kissing a man is another. Especially a married prince! He had too much power and he didn’t want to lose what he had just because of a foolish boy or wrong move. 

Dolokhov glared at his reflection in the frosted window. Why had he let himself catch such feelings? Anatole probably didn’t know what he had done. He never knows. 

The soldier growled and grabbed the neck of the bottle and lifted it above his head. Anger coursed through his veins as he threw it to the ground. He bristled with fury as he watched the bottle split into tiny pieces everywhere with a loud shatter. 

Oh how he wanted to tell Anatole how he truly felt! The stupid boy probably wouldn’t even be able to understand. All he did was play with people like they were his own puppets. 

He stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving and heart thudding against his ribs. The anger ebbed as he balled his fists and breathed through his nose. It was a small tactic his dear mother told him. 

Moments later, he looked at the mess he created. Anger was replaced by heartbreak and sadness. He crumbled to the glass covered floor and tears pricked his eyes. Dolokhov tried to keep the tears in, he’d been told that crying meant weakness and cowardice. But even his hard attempts were fatal.

Tears poured out like they never did before. His whole body shook as sobs slipped from his throat. His hands clutched his hair, his arms, anything that would keep him grounded. 

Dolokhov, the almighty Fedya Dolokhov, sobbing on the ground, surrounded by broken glass was an ugly sight. And he knew it.

Anatole was stupidly beautiful and it was sickening. Dolokhov hated it. He hated everything about Anatole but even through that hatred, there was him in denial. 

Why had Anatole cursed his heart like this? 

Did Anatole feel the pain he felt? 

Those questions plagued his mind as he cried out helplessly into the air. He gripped the glass on the floor unconsciously. 

Dolokhov sat up from his previously curled position after he felt the jolt of pain in his hands. His eyes were horribly red rimmed and his cheeks were wet and his palms were covered in small glass shards, specks of blood peeking out from where the glass was accidentally pressed in. 

As he sighed and stood up to clean the disaster, he thought:

Was he a fool for loving a man like Anatole?

And there was only one reasonable response.

Yes. Yes he was. He was always the fool.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & Kudos are appreciated! :-)
> 
> Thanks for reading. xoxo


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